


Bunker Buddies

by synonymsforchocolate



Series: Season Three Bughead Episode Tags [3]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Bunker buddies, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, bugbunker, bughead - Freeform, definitely not jethel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 15:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16410704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonymsforchocolate/pseuds/synonymsforchocolate
Summary: Tag for S3E3: As Above, So Below.Picks up where the episode left off, with Betty and Jughead in the bunker.





	Bunker Buddies

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo this has become a game of Can I Predict The Plot of Riverdale, feat. Bughead. But it's all in good fun. That last episode started and ended with #bugbunker, so this little post-ep fic will too. 
> 
> I'm not going to be doing a tag for the flashback episode, but I do have bits of the next one pretty well planned, depending on how some things go on the show, and suffice it to say it will feature Overly Concerned Jughead.

 

If making out with her boyfriend in their dead classmate’s bunker just after he’d successfully finessed his way through a deadly board game was wrong, Betty Cooper didn’t want to be right.

 

They’d had sex down there, yes, but tonight wasn’t about that. Sometimes everything around them was so fast, so heavy, that the two of them just wanted to collapse into one another. They spent so much of their time holding each other up that to lie down together was a true blessing.

 

Tonight they were head to head, skin to skin, Jughead smoothing his fingers over her blonde curls still bouncy from their night at the speakeasy, though both their hair was a little ruffled from their horizontal tangle. Betty smiled into Jughead’s bare shoulder. _Bughead bedhead,_ she thought to herself.

 

He’d looked so good that night in his suspenders and dark suit, even with blue still tinting his lips. That was how Betty liked to think of their lives now—in colors. Red for all the bloodshed. Yellow for her hair. Green for the Serpents and for her mother, who was a snake of her own kind. Blue and gold and pink, sometimes, when she thought about their lives before Jason Blosson’s death and how they might be if none of this was happening. The Black Hood was black. Griffins and Gargoyles was blue. She thought of Jughead as grey, grey like his beanie, grey like the S that curled on his tshirts. Grey like the perfect blend of dark and light that he was, that he allowed her to be.

 

“Betty,” Jughead started. “What are you thinking about?”

 

She sighed. She didn’t want to talk about this, but they couldn’t stay in their bubble—or their bunker—forever.

 

“Our parents,” she said. “What they might know about G&G.”

 

“Ahhh,” he said, exhaling. “FP and Alice are becoming quite the roadblock, aren’t they?”

 

“They know something, Jug. Something important. And they’re not going to tell us unless they have to.”

 

“They might,” he said, “now that everyone at school has the scriptures.”

 

Betty sat up in bed abruptly. The action made the blanket fall from the crest of her breasts and pool at her hips. Jughead’s eyes bounced down to her nipples, and she could practically _hear_ the gears turning in his head, thinking about what he could be doing. _Boys._

 

“Up here,” she said, tilting his chin up with one finger to meet her gaze. “Jug, you’re _right._ Everyone in town in playing this game now. It’s out of control. Out of _their_ control. It’s not just us anymore. They’ll have to tell us what they know, to stop everyone from participating in whatever horror cult scenario this is. We can make them tell us!”

 

“Or—hear me out—maybe we should just stay down here forever,” Jughead said, the teasing lilt returning to his voice. He wrapped her arms around her, finding the smallest part of her waist and squeezing her lovingly. “Bunk buddies. No, bunker buddies.”

 

Betty giggled. She could think of nothing she’d like better. When she allowed her mind to wander, her imagination concocted all sorts of runaway fantasies—college, California, anything. But she supposed it didn’t matter as long it the future had herself, Jughead, and absolutely nothing to do with Riverdale.

 

“Juggie, focus,” she laughed.

 

He stamped a long kiss, full of purpose, on her lips, then flopped back on the mattress. “Fine,” he sighed. “This is why I like you, you know.”

 

She snapped the elastic of his boxers lovingly. “I know.”

 

“Okay, so say we go to our parents. Get them to ‘fess up—“

 

“A shakedown we’re more than capable of, after your last performance with Ethel,” Betty interrupted, beaming with pride.

 

“Just doing my job, ma’am,” he boyfriend said, giving her the two finger salute. “But, what then? We’ve still got hundreds of students running around playing a game that wants them to sacrifice themselves for some creepy squirrel-bone king. I feel a little responsible. Riverdale High can’t take any more untimely student deaths, Betts.”

 

Betty thought for a minute. “This game is out of control now, right?”

 

“Right.”

 

“So let’s control it. What’s the only thing we know for _sure_ you need to play Griffins and Gargoyles?”

 

Again, Betty could see the wheels turning in his head, catching up to her. God, she loved him, and she especially loved that this was their pillow talk. She made a mental note never to let Jughead go, ever, because she was fairly certain she’d never find a man who was as equally turned on playing detective.

 

Then Jughead nodded. “You’re right. As usual.”

 

“You know where we have to go,” Betty said.

 

“The speakeasy,” they said at the same time, although Jughead sounded less excited and more resigned.

 

He sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. “I’ll get my suspenders.”

 

***

 

Jughead couldn’t stop thinking how _normal_ this was, having Betty on the back of his motorcycle as they rode out to Pop’s. The way her hands felt around his ribcage, like it was more that just holding on. Like she was protecting his heart. _Silly Betts,_ he thought. _It’s with you already._

 

They pulled into the parking lot and Jughead cut the engine. The neon lights of Pop’s danced on Betty’s face, making her golden hair looked slightly multicolored. Jughead thought about colors a lot now. Colors, and the lack thereof. So much of the things in his life and his head were dark, associated with darkness and his own personal black void that seemed to suck in everything good. But Betty was all color, all pink and yellow and baby blue and startling green in the eyes. He tried to focus on that, on all the bright warm things she was.

 

“Shall we?” he asked, holding out his hand for her.

 

Betty took it. “I hope she’s still here”

 

Veronica was in fact still there, Reggie told them. He’d clearly been helping move tables or something, because he was shirtless and slightly sweaty.

 

“Veronica wants a new layout, so people have more room to dance,” Reggie shrugged, as if this explained his shiftlessness. Jughead didn’t particularly like Reggie, but he didn’t dislike him, either. He was beginning to suspect there might be a little something going on between Riverdale’s resident reformed mean girl and the pouty lunk that was Mantle the Magnificent, but it wasn’t his place to investigate _that._ And honestly, he’d rather not touch whatever was happening there.

 

“Here, I’ll take you down,” Reggie was telling them. “Follow me.”

 

Veronica was sitting at the bar, legs crossed, glasses on. That meant she was likely looking over the books. She swiveled when she saw them, and for the umpteenth time Jughead felt so, so grateful for Betty. He liked Veronica well enough, but something about her chilling confidence and royal wardrobe—those pearls, always with the pearls—made him want to cling tightly to Betty and everything she stood for. Much more his speed. Maybe his only speed.

 

“Hi, V!” Betty chirped. “It looks great in here!”

 

“Doesn’t it?” Veronica said. “After opening night, I just wanted to add a few finishing touches to make it absolutely perfect. You know, for when Archiekins gets to see it.”

 

Jughead bit back the impulse to groan. _Archiekins._ Honestly, how had that nickname stuck?

 

“I take it this isn’t a social call, you two?” Veronica continued.

 

“Not exactly,” Jughead said. “We need a bit of a favor.” He looked at Betty for some help. This would probably sound better coming from her.

 

“You remember that game, Griffins and Gargoyles, that everyone’s been playing at school?” his girlfriend asked. 

 

Veronica raised an eyebrow. “I have been a tad busy, but yes, I noticed the manual in my locker.”

 

“Well, we’re trying to control it. To stop it. It’s not a good game, V,” Betty went on. “And one of the things you need to play G&G is this drink, FreshAid. Jug says it tastes fine, but it stains everyone’s lips blue.”

 

“ _Not_ exactly high fashion,” Veronica said.

 

“No, not exactly,” Jughead cut in. “The point is, everyone who’s playing is going to want to get their hands on it. We think we can keep track of who’s playing by controlling FreshAid. It’s a fairly regional beverage; not something you can order online. We found the supplier a few hours away. We’re hoping you can buy out the distributor, get him to deliver all the FreshAid in Riverdale here, to the speakeasy.”

 

“You can put it on the menu, either here up upstairs at Pop’s” Betty added. “Everyone will have to come here to you to get it. You’ll make money, and we can watch out for the kids playing this stupid game. Track them, maybe talk them out of it. We’re hoping this can be a win-win, V.”  Jughead watched Betty put on her best doe eyes. He was awfully glad he wasn’t on the receiving end—those eyes were a deadly weapon of persuasion that ought to be under the control of NATO or something.

 

“Hmm. I suppose I could concoct a signature mocktail,” Veronica said conspiratoriously.“Call it 'Kiss of Death'.”  She smiled wide. “Okay, I’m in. If you can get me the distributor’s phone number, consider it done.”

 

Betty let a squeal. “Thanks, V!” She threw her arms around her friend.

 

“Yeah, thanks Veronica. Let us know if you run into any problems with the distributor,” Jughead said. “And keep Pop out of it. I don’t need him mixed up in all this.” He and Betty locked eyes, nodding. _Protect Pop Tate at all costs._

 

Veronica was already scribbling onto a bar napkin. They could hear Reggie’s footsteps descending the stairs.

 

“We’ll leave you to it,” Betty said, smiling. “Thanks again, we really appreciate it.”

 

“What are friends for?’ Veronica waved them off, looking to Reggie to resume rearranging the layout in front of the stage.

 

Betty tugged Jughead towards the exit. He could smell the aroma of fries increasing as they trotted up the stairs, calling to him like a magnet. They rode home in a comfortable silence, Betty clutching tight the Pop’s takeout she’d suggested they pick up for dinner. God, he was a lucky bastard.

 

The warm, homey smell of burgers filled the bunker as they ate. This was one of his favorite things to do—eat a good burger with his girl and simply talk about the day. Together they mapped out their strategy for controlling the game and exactly what they’d say to their parents to extract the information they needed. It was late, and they were both exhausted, but he felt at peace, which wasn’t something he felt often. Because even if things went to shit, at this one moment they might possibly be ahead of the game.

 

“Gosh, that FreshAid stuff really doesn’t come off,” Betty said, pawing at him with a napkin. “You still have a little touch of blue lips.”

 

“Mmm,” he said, mouth still half-full. He swallowed and winked at her. “Better than blue balls.”

 

“Oh, stop it,” she chided, but he could tell she was amused. She was beginning to tidy up the table where they’d eaten. As he finished the last of her fries—his were long gone—she began to tug on one of his old tshirts and turn down the blankets on the old mattress.

 

“C’mon, Jug, it’s freezing down here,” she said. “Come to bed.”

 

Jughead needed no further encouragement. He stripped down to his boxers, relishing the way his girlfriend’s eyes traveled down the smooth planes of his chest to check his bulge. _And she rags on me about self control!_ Pulling back the blanket, he slid in next to her.

 

“I love this blanket you bought,” she said softly, tugging at the edges of the green checkered fabric. Jughead had picked out the quilt specifically; neither of them had wanted to get any level of naked under anything Dilton might have slept on and/or never washed.

 

“We’ll keep it,” he promised. “Really make the bunker ours.”

 

She laughed. “Oh, the hanging totems and skulls don’t do it for you as decor?”

 

“Not really, no,” he said, smiling. “Even growing up in a trailer, we had better taste than this.” He stroked his hand over her cheek. “How would you decorate it, baby?”

 

“Hmmm,” she said thoughtfully. She pressed her lips briefly to his collarbone. “These pin-up posters would have to go. And anything that was once dead, obviously.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“I’d frame a few pictures. Probably one from freshman year of you, me, and Archie leaning against the brick wall of school—we were so young then. Maybe a few of us as kids. That Halloween we all went as Crayola crayons. And one of Jellybean, too.”

 

Jughead felt his cheeks get warm. He never failed to be astonished as how well she knew him, how well she knew what he’d want. Sometimes faster than he himself knew.

 

“We’d need a bookshelf,” she continued, “and somewhere to put your typewriter, and cork for a murder board.”

 

“Don’t forget my American Werewolf poster,” he chimed in.

 

“Sure, Jug.”

 

It was a nice thing to imagine, but they both knew they wouldn’t change the bunker, not really. It was all useful evidence, full of clues they might need. And there was something else, too. This wasn’t _really_ their first place, and Jughead only wanted to decorate when they had somewhere to officially share.

 

“You know we’re going to have a home, someday, right?” Betty asked like she could read his mind. _She probably can,_ he thought.

 

Jughead nodded. “Except I’d like our first apartment to have a little more natural sunlight that this.”

 

“Fair enough.” Betty paused and looked up at him. “Jug, why do you think Ethel said I wasn’t worthy?”

 

“Aw, Betts, don’t listen to her.”

 

“I’m not, I just…why didn’t she think I could play?”

 

Jughead smirked. “Well…I think she’s developed a bit of a crush on yours truly.”

 

“Oh,” his girlfriend said, her voice just a little higher than it normally was. Jughead slid his hander under her shirt and ran his thumb in tiny circles over the small of her back, hoping it was reassuring. He'd told her about the kiss, and she'd understood, but he was sure it hadn't exactly felt fun. 

 

“Betty,” he said, rolling his eyes lightly. “Come on. Don’t make me say it.”

 

“Say what?”

 

He grinned. “I love you, Betty Cooper.”

 

She laughed. “Jughead Jones,” she breathed. “I love you.”

 

“And I,” he said, drawing closer, “really love this bunker.”

 

He rolled them so he was on top of her, although he kept most of his weight away. Linking his hands at the nape of her neck, Jughead leaned forward and nuzzled her chin with his nose, then raised up slightly so their lips met. They kissed for a long time, losing themselves in the world of tongue and teeth and heartbeats so synced they could have been one, and Jughead thought, _If making out with Betty Cooper in our dead classmate's bunker after a murder investigation is wrong, then I never want to be right._

**Author's Note:**

> I should also say: thanks for anybody who reads this! I'm mostly using it as an exercise to practice writing for uninterrupted chunks of time, but I do hope you enjoy it.


End file.
